


Hissy Fits And Barbarians

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-05
Updated: 2006-03-05
Packaged: 2018-08-16 00:47:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8080219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: Tucker and Reed are on repair duty aboard an alien ship. (07/31/2002)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: In response to MJ's Chat Challenge, using the following phrasesâ€”"not yet...bang harder!" (said by Trip); "Spelling was never my strong point"; "I passed my O-levels with flying colors" (or "The benefits of a classic education"). And I said the story needed a monkey. I thought up this story _after_ MJ posted the challenge. I figured out the 'monkey' angle and the rest just fell into place. Prizes to anyone who can find any other movie references.  


* * *

The engine. The squat, battered, ugly and impossibly broken engine; it was hulking there like some demented gremlin, mocking them.

Trip sighed—well, moaned would be a closer word—and sat heavily on the deck. The deck was warm. The whole ship they were on was warm. The aliens seemed to prefer it that way, like a tropical rain forest. Trip and the one person with him were all wearing the hot-weather versions of their uniforms: the snot-yellow ones with the nifty reinforced knees. Trip had taken the shirt portion off at least an hour ago, though it hadn't seemed to make the slightest difference.

At least the reinforced knees made it easier to kneel, which he wasn't doing now but had been doing a lot as he poked around at the underside of the stupid engine—the stupid, mother-humping malevolent bastard of an engine that refused to be fixed. It refused to even tell them what was wrong. Well, that wasn't entirely true. It was probably trying to tell them. They just couldn't understand it.

Trip moaned again and lay back on the deck, arms spread-eagled. He was still holding his laser-saw, but it seemed just like too much effort to let it go. Besides, this way he could look busy if anyone walked in, like he was just trying to reach a difficult part of the engine. He wanted to laugh at how dumb that idea was but it was too hot to move that much.

He wished he could take his t-shirt off, but that would be too casual even on a ship of perpetually-naked aliens. Hell, he wished _he_ were naked. But then he'd probably start to stick to things. The deck was damp with humidity, and probably human sweat, but he'd been soaking for hours and a bit more wet could hardly make him care.

"Malcolm," he said, speaking to the ceiling. It was higher up than what he was used to, covered with the swing-bars that the unfortunately very friendly aliens used as their main means of locomotion. They kind of looked like monkey bars. Which was fitting, come to think of it. Trip figured Travis would probably enjoy trying them. But then if he were actually here he'd be far too miserable to want to.

"What?" Malcolm asked. He didn't sound happy. He was on the low catwalk that circled about half way up the demented-gremlin engine, like a big perforated belt. He was still working—good old Starfleet that he was—trying to find a source of the difficulties the engine might be having, although 'not working' wasn't a very specific problem. He'd also taken off the yellow shirt and his black t-shirt clung to him wetly, outlining every single inch of skin. Trip wished he had enough energy to admire the view.

"Are we dead?"

"Don't think so," Malcolm snorted. He glanced down at the prone engineer. "Why? Is that a request?"

"Maybe," Trip sighed. "I was just wonderin' if we're in hell."

"Hmmm," Malcolm said thoughtfully. "Yes, I can see how this might fit the description."

"Yup," Trip said. "Workin' in this heat on an engine we can't fix that has a problem we can't find."

"With very large, hairy, and...exuberant aliens," Malcolm finished dryly. He looked at the scanner he had passed over the same spot for the fourteenth time, snarled and banged it into the dented surface, adding another one. "Did that help?"

Trip turned his head slightly so he could see the engine. "Not yet...bang harder!" He feigned enthusiasm, in the hope that Malcolm might take him seriously and really do the engine some damage. At least that way there'd be something they might be able to actually fix.

"Where's Hoshi when you need her, huh?" Trip asked.

"I don't think she'd have better luck with the scanner than I just did," Malcolm said.

"I _meant,_ " Trip said with exaggerated patience, "maybe she could help us translate all the symbols that probably mean something."

"I doubt it," Malcolm said. He gave up trying to scan or hit the engine and slipped the scanner into a pocket. He walked to the edge of the catwalk and jumped down—there wasn't a ladder. He stood next to Trip's head, looking down at him. "Last I saw her she was with the captain, trying to make the translator work. I think she was pulling out her hair."

Trip smirked. "Poor monkeys probably think the damn thing's a toy."

"They're not monkeys," Malcolm said. He moved a little way off and lay down himself, so that his head was even with Trip's. He was facing the opposite direction, so that his crown was even with Trip's chin. "I think that's very rude."

"Why the hell do you think it's rude?" Trip asked. "We're goddam monkeys."

" _You_ might be a grease monkey," Malcolm retorted, "I'm an armory officer. And a damn fine one to boot."

"I _meant_ ," Trip said, "We evolved from monkeys."

"That may be," Malcolm said, "but that doesn't mean that our hosts did."

"They _look_ like monkeys."

"Actually," Malcolm said, "I think they would technically be lesser apes, being as they look much more like gibbons."

"I always thought 'lesser apes' just meant stunted gorillas." Trip said. At Malcolm's expression he laughed. "I'm kidding. I'm kidding. Keep yer damn shirt on."

"I don't bloody well want to," Malcolm muttered. "It's hot as an oven on Mercury in here."

"Don't remind me," Trip groaned. "Please, please, don't remind me." He tilted his head, getting a blurry close-up view of Malcolm's face. "How hot d'you figure it is, anyway?"

Malcolm smiled thinly. "Well," he said, "since I'm not having to boil water to keep you from slipping into a coma, I'd estimate that it's still within the range of human tolerance."

"Oh, har-de-har-har," Trip groused. "Y'seemed pretty damned worried about me at the time."

"Obviously a grievous error on my part," Malcolm answered. He sighed, rubbing his sweat-beaded nose. "Tell me again why I'm stuck here with you like a bloody wanker?"

"That's friendly," Trip said. He pursed his lips, thinking. "Keeping me safe from the dangerous aliens?"

"In that case," Malcolm said, "I should be with Hoshi and the captain—god knows they're both more important than you are."

"Nice," Trip laughed. "Yer cute when yer bitchy, y'know that?" He ignored Malcolm's response. "Makin' sure I don't get pregnant again?"

"Not bloody likely. I'd welcome you getting yourself knocked up again, if it meant we could get off this damned ship," Malcolm said. "Try again."

"Your incredible engineering expertise?"

Malcolm just looked at him.

Trip laughed again. "Because I love you and can't bear to be without you?"

"How delightfully romantic," Malcolm said wryly. "...Just make that up?"

"Yep. Hmmm. Okay: misery loves company?"

"Ah yes," Malcolm sounded satisfied. "That sounds just about right."

"Guilty as charged," Trip said. He turned his head and leaned in so he could give Malcolm a quick upside-down peck on the cheek. He screwed up his face. "Ugh. Sweaty."

"Whose fault is that?" Malcolm asked. He lifted an arm so he could rub his wet face on his wet sleeve. He dropped his arm again, sighing. "Can't think of anyone I'd rather suffer in these delightful extremes of temperature with." He reached over awkwardly and managed to pat Trip on the stomach. "Right then: break's over. Let's get on with it."

"What for?" Trip said as he wearily rolled to a sitting position. Malcolm was already on his feet and he gladly took the lieutenant's offered hand. Malcolm pulled him unceremoniously upright then walked over to where Trip had been working on the engines. He leaned over slightly and began tracing the bizarre alien symbols.

"What do you suppose all this is, then?"

Trip leaned over beside him, putting his hand on his shoulder. He removed it quickly—too hot. "Self-destruct button?"

"Seriously," Malcolm insisted, "it has to mean something."

"Spellin' was never my strong point."

Malcolm looked at him, his expression irritated. Trip had one arm out, leaning heavily on the machine's casing. "Know what this reminds me of?"

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. "Hell?"

"That, too." Trip said. "But I mean," he gestured at the room, the horrible engine. "There's a myth, from ancient Greece: about a guy who's doomed for all eternity to push a boulder up a big ol' hill, then as soon as he gets to the top it rolls down again. That's like us—workin' forever and getting nowhere. Who was that? Prometheus?"

"Sisyphus," Malcolm said immediately. "Prometheus brought humanity fire. The gods punished him by binding him in chains and having ravens endlessly peck out his liver."

Trip blinked. "You scare me."

Malcolm just shrugged. "Benefits of a classic education."

Trip looked at him, considering. "So that was they guy? Hissy Fits?"

"Sisyphus," Malcolm corrected automatically.

Trip tried again. "Hissyfits."

"It's pronounced Sisyphus," Malcolm said again, sounding like he was trying desperately to keep his patience. Then he saw Trip's grin and glowered. "I hate it when you do that."

Trip winked. "Aw, you know y'love me."

Malcolm shook his head, eyes rolling. "God alone knows why." He turned his attention back to the symbols, tapping them with one slender finger. "I'll bet you we _would_ get somewhere if we could decipher their language."

Trip snorted. "Good friggin' luck. Hoshi's been tryin' that since we were first contacted. It's all gibberish. You know that." He chuckled. "It's all Greek to us."

Malcolm had both eyebrows raised when he looked at him this time. "Are you sure you're feeling quite all right?"

Trip nodded. "Yeah." He rubbed the heel of his hand against one eye. "Just frustrated, is all." He sighed heavily, smacking the end of a closed fist against his forehead. "Try the translator again—maybe this time it'll be able to tell us somethin'."

"Fiftieth time's the charm, then?" Malcolm asked. But he obediently reached into his pants pocket and pulled out the translator. Hoshi had worked with Trip to specially modify all the translators for the away team; these ones included combination camera and readout screens. He thumbed on the wet translator and ran it slowly over the symbols, from right to left the way he'd been told the aliens read.

He eyed the readout. "It says: 'Baby Bird Analogue.'"

"'Baby bird analogue," Trip repeated. "I think it's possessed."

Malcolm ran the fingers of his free hand through his hair, then grimaced and flicked the sweat off his fingers. He shook his head. "It doesn't make any sense," he said, "that's the same answer-"

There was a very loud _thump_ behind them. They both whirled instantly. Malcolm dropped into a defensive crouch, translator pointed like a weapon. His eyes flicked from the large, furry alien in front of them to the translator in his hand; then he straightened up quickly and put the machine behind his back. He smiled warmly at their visitor, which was one of the few human expressions the aliens understood. Trip smiled widely as well, though it was mostly because of Malcolm's blushing.

The alien was one whom they both recognized: taller than Trip with bright blue fur and jet-black eyes the size of baseballs. The few hairless places on the alien's body—the face, ears and palms—were almost purple, as if he was in a constant state of pleased apoplexy. The fur bristled almost straight out from his skin, but was actually quite soft. Trip and Malcolm were very familiar with how soft it was, since the he wouldn't stop touching them. He truly did look like a giant monkey—or at least the carnival midway equivalent. The kind of monkey you'd pay money for, to see if you could win as a stuffed doll.

Right now he (without a working translator it was impossible to tell if they even had sexes, but 'he' seemed like as reasonable a pronoun as any, especially with the alien's size) was smiling. Or at least making the closest approximation his species could to a smile, which looked more like a mixture of deep shock and horror. He reached out with the largest fingers of both his three-fingered hands and touched Trip and Malcolm right between the eyes. He'd learned how to be gentle after knocking Trip to the deck with his first enthusiastic greeting. Trip was still sure that by the time he and Malcolm could actually get out of there they'd have large black bruises like birthmarks in the middle of their foreheads.

Malcolm, who was a little closer, returned the greeting first, pressing his finger as hard as he could to the alien's skull. Apparently it was considered rude if you didn't—hence the away team's impending concussions. Trip followed suit, and Cheetah pulled him into a one-armed hug. Malcolm stood quietly back, trying neither to laugh nor worry about his partner suffocating. 'Cheetah' had been Trip's choice of name for the alien—of course—since the sign he used for himself was completely untranslatable. As long as they used the correct gesture for his name they figured it didn't matter.

Cheetah let Trip go and Malcolm quietly steadied him as he stumbled backwards. Cheetah reached for him next, but Malcolm quickly made the 'no thank you' gesture. The alien gave him a look very much like a pout, but pulled back his arm. Instead he started signing quickly, and Trip and Malcolm pressed together so they could both look at the translator's screen at once. "Are same-same Glorious barbarians happy working?"

Malcolm looked at Trip helplessly. "What the bloody hell did he just say?"

Trip shook his head; a gesture they knew meant nothing to the aliens. "Beats me."

"Oh, were is Hoshi?" Malcolm moaned.

Cheetah repeated the gesture. Despite the difference in their appearances it was possible to tell that he was concerned, wondering why they weren't answering.

Trip nodded to Malcolm, and the lieutenant thumbed on the translator's output switch. "We're doin' good," Trip supplied, smiling as he bent towards the translator.

Cheetah read the screen carefully as Trip's speech was translated into familiar words using his alphabet. He looked pleased, reaching for Trip again.

Trip backed away quickly. "...But we're still havin' trouble figurin' out what the problem is with your engines."

Cheetah frowned thoughtfully, which for him meant blowing air through his upper lip. He gestured again, a faster and more complicated series this time. Malcolm and Trip kept their eyes glued to the translator's tiny screen.

"Throat-cold is joyous in portion of Most Excellent Starjoy. Overcome with non-eating sadness, This Speaker is Certain. Glorious same-same help touch near baby bird analogue appendage?"

Malcolm finished reading the screen. He thumbed off the output as he looked at Trip. "I want to cry."

Trip gestured for him to flick the output back on. He swallowed. "Meanin' no disrespect, Cheetah," he said, using the sign Cheetah had taught him for his own name, "but we don't seem to be doin' y'all much good here. Are you sure we can help you with this problem?"

Cheetah blinked—a very human gesture—then nodded vigorously, a flurry of fluttering of his large hands. He began signing again. "Glorious same-same barbarians joy-known forever for Glorious Love and Understanding of All and for Helpfulness. Help now, Glorious same-same? Starjoy knows much Hunger; Throat-cold is joyous and causing Much Pain. Polite Request?"

"Polite request," Malcolm repeated. Cheetah watched the screen translate what Malcolm said, then nodded with a great fluttering of hands. Malcolm turned the output off. "He certainly seems to understand us reasonably well."

Trip was still smiling at Cheetah. "So why the fuck can't we understand him?"

"Aye, there's the rub, isn't it?" Malcolm said.

Trip quirked an eyebrow at him. "If yer quoting Shakespeare now I'll really know you've lost it."

"It's literature," Malcolm snapped absently. He was still studying the readout screen, reading over Cheetah's words. "It's hardly this alien gibberish..." His voice trailed off. He looked at Trip, eyes hooded as he thought. "Talking about Greek myths reminded me of him." Malcolm turned back to Cheetah immediately, turning the translator's output switch back on. "Cheetah," he said carefully, "can you give us a few minutes, please?"

Cheetah looked a little pouty again, but he hand-fluttered his agreement. He turned and easily leapt the nearly five meters between the deck and the ceiling, swinging hand-over-hand out of the engine room.

Trip turned to Malcolm the second Cheetah was gone. "All right—what're you thinking?" He sounded hopeful again for the first time all day.

"I'm no linguist," Malcolm said, "but I _do_ know literature. And history." He smiled smugly at Trip. "You could say I passed my O-levels with flying colors. And A-levels."

"You could say I'm gonna kill you unless you get ta the point," Trip said.

"Fine. What does 'barbarians' mean?"

Trip blinked. "Who cares?"

"No," Malcolm said seriously, "think about it: the word comes from ancient Greek. It translates as 'foreigner,' but it literally means 'babbler', someone who _can't speak._ "

Trip tilted his head, considering. "Cheetah keeps calling himself a 'Speaker, ' an' it's always translated with a capital letter, like it's real important." He frowned. "But he knows we can speak—he's been speakin' to us!"

"...But we can't speak like him," Malcolm said, "So he calls us 'barbarians,' or a word that translates as barbarians. Not 'foreigners,' but 'barbarians.' People who can't speak."

"He also calls us 'Glorious same-same,'" Trip said. "I thought that was just some computer-fart from the translator. But maybe...he's just talkin' 'bout us bein' like him?"

Malcolm pressed buttons on the small translator, scrolling back on the screen until he was looking at Cheetah's earlier words to them. "Glorious same-same barbarians," he repeated, reading the words. "Similar people who don't speak."

"-Similar _wonderful_ people who don't speak," Trip added.

Malcolm looked up at his partner, smiling. "My dear Watson," he said, "I think we've got it!"

* * *

"So," Trip said with satisfaction, "they really are callin' the damn thing a baby bird."

"Because that's the access to the anti-matter intake," Malcolm said. "It is like a baby bird—it has to be fed all the time."

"Yep," Trip grinned. He used his laser cutter to slice open the casing right next to the symbols. He whistled softly. "That looks like some 'joyous throat-cold' all right." The intake manifolds were perforated, the victims of countless minute explosions. "They're lucky the whole engine didn't blow on 'em."

"Indeed," Malcolm said. "So—it was right where Cheetah told us to 'touch' all along."

"Yep." Trip pulled his head out of the small hole he'd made, turning so his back was resting against the engine casing and he was sitting on the floor. "I don't get it, Malc," he said, "the Speakers could've fixed this themselves. They obviously already knew what was wrong."

Malcolm looked at him curiously. "Think we've been had?"

"I dunno," Trip said. He looked at Malcolm and raised his eyebrows, "maybe we should ask 'em."

Malcolm shrugged, stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled.

Cheetah brachiated in like a fat blue whirlwind. He let the swing bars go and dropped to the deck with a crash that shook both men's bodies. He bent, peering at the hole in the casing Trip had so recently exposed. His hands started fluttering madly, showing his pleasure.

"Joy!" He signed enthusiastically, "so much Joy! Starjoy is healed! Extraordinarily polite Thanks and Love!"

Malcolm smiled in spite of himself. It would certainly be impossible to accuse this species of reticence. He thumbed on the translator's output. "You already knew what the problem was—why did you ask us for help?"

Cheetah cocked his head, looking momentarily much more like a dog than a monkey—or a gibbon. Then he grinned, opening his impressive jaws as wide as they would go. He signed quickly, with great sweep and force. "Glorious Same-Same share Love with Speakers. You Understand. You Speak!" He said, "You are not barbarians. You are Speakers. True Glorious Same-Same."

Trip looked at Malcolm. Malcolm looked at Trip. "I think we're now part of the tribe," Malcolm said.

Trip smiled, a little weakly. "Great. Just what I've always wanted!"

Cheetah studied the readout on the little screen, fluttering his hands. Malcolm and Trip smiled at him politely.

Trip leaned in close to Malcolm, "d'you think we can go home?"

Before Malcolm could answer, or ask their host, Cheetah reached in with his huge hands and grabbed Malcolm by the shoulders. The lieutenant barely had time for a surprised squawk before he was swept into a huge bear hug, the blue-furred alien dancing around with him. As Trip watched in shock, Cheetah leaned in and ... _Did Cheetah just play tonsil-hockey with Malcolm?_

Cheetah swung Malcolm around again and let him go in front of Trip. Malcolm was red as several beets and he swayed slightly before sitting clumsily on the floor.

Trip took his shoulders to steady him. "Malc?" He asked worriedly, "you all right?"

Malcolm just looked stunned. He blinked several times while Cheetah beamed down on both of them. "I think," he said, voice awed, "I think I've just been snogged by a monkey."

Trip managed to suck back a shout of laughter, and he didn't even cough too much. "I thought they were 'lesser apes.'"

Malcolm didn't seem to have heard him. "My god, Trip: I've just been snogged by a monkey!"

Trip did laugh then, despite the surety that Cheetah wouldn't recognize it. Inter-species relations be damned—it was just too funny. "Y'know," he wheezed between gouts of laughter, "that reminds me of a joke: Where does a 300 kilo gorilla sit when he goes to the movies?" He didn't bother waiting for Malcolm's answer; he knew he wouldn't get one. "Anywhere he wants to!"

Malcolm touched his lips, blue-gray eyes very wide. "Snogged by a bloody, great blue monkey..."

Cheetah's hands were fluttering with much Joy and Love, graceful as hummingbirds. There was no end of Glorious Same-Same Speakers in the universe.


End file.
